Tiny, frail fingers reached out into the air,
Pale and wrinkly, they were bare,
Love and warmth enveloped them,
Blanketed by cotton and lace right to the hem....
Grew they did and reach out,
Touching and feeling the world about,
The soft tender strokes of mum's lips,
The rough graze of dads cheeks and his playful nips....
Colour and noise they grew into,
Grab at toys they did but only at a few,
Pictures and images they loved to feel,
Pages of wonder was what sealed the deal....
More did these hands grow to touch,
The wonders life provided were such,
Hand in hand the tiny fingers twirled,
Of laughter, tiny giggles and claps did they swirl....
To hold a pencil came the first task,
A new role to play, a new mask,
The weight of expectation begins to form,
Guidance came, all sweet and warm.
The grip on the pencil grew stronger,
The pressures with it grew harder,
Sweat and toil began to fester,
Of strength and courage these delicate strands muster....
To caress and hold they now knew,
But only for a few,
Those that they wished to show love and affection,
An undying dedication of love and passion....
Hitting hard at boards with letters,
As the icons move in tiny patters,
The smooth surface that these nimble tips brush,
A stark contrast to the weathered palms that were once lush....
Grown and weathered these bright brown feelers may be,
But the world they have seen,
Today they wonder of the touch they first knew,
The feel of emptiness, the darkness in dews...
They claw into the abyss,
Searching, groping, grieving....
Holding on to the single strand of hope,
That the treasure that lay beyond will help them cope,
With the hardness and roughness that life has set,
They search for the familiar warmth they once had....
